To Be Known
by Jevvica
Summary: Athos had loved once. Perhaps not as easily as Aramis or as steadily as Porthos or as fiercely as d'Artagnan. But he had loved his brother and his wife and the future laid out before him. And he had lost it all.


Summary: Athos had loved once.

Perhaps not as easily as Aramis or as steadily as Porthos or as fiercely as d'Artagnan. But he had loved his brother and his wife and the future laid out before him.

And he had lost it all.

 **Author's Notes** : Currently, I'm exploring the relationship that Athos and Porthos have. There is something about the way they talk to each other that I'm having great fun with.

Set sometime in Season 2.

I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

* * *

At the distance, Athos couldn't be sure d'Artagnan was still breathing.

Bound and face down on the forest floor, he hadn't moved since Athos and Porthos had caught up to the bandits that had made off with him.

"How many?" Porthos peered through the trees, studying the shadows that moved through the tiny house.

"Six or seven, I'd say. Not countin' the one out front. No one watchin' the back."

"Too many," declared Athos.

"Nah, it's fine."

"If you mean a fine way to get yourself killed, then yes."

"You got a better plan?"

Athos looked back to the house. They could try for reinforcements, but there was no guarantee how long the bandits would linger. Or how long they'd keep d'Artagnan alive.

"We don't have time to argue 'bout this," said Porthos. "You need a distraction to get d'Artagnan on a horse and get out of here. I'll meet you back at the inn."

"We'll both take the house."

"And we all end up dead? Nah, at least this way, you and d'Artagnan definitely get out."

"We're just trading one hostage for another." Porthos cast him a look, clear even in the darkness. "This has nothing to do with your skill, Porthos. It does not improve our situation to merely replace d'Artagnan with you."

Porthos looked away, frowning. The watch fire outside the house danced through the leaves, casting ever-changing patterns of shadow across his face.

"Yes, it does," he growled finally. "Small space, element of surprise. One guard? They have no idea who they're messin' with." He nodded sharply. "This is our play." The big man moved to stand, but Athos caught his arm to stop him.

"Why?"

"Because you need him." And Porthos was gone, melting into the dark forest with a silence and speed that belied his size.

Athos managed a breath, shock humming through him. Another breath and he mounted his horse and squeezed the reins until the leather creaked. Then he pulled his pistol and waited.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The sound of a splintering wood and pistol shots shattered the quiet of the night. The lone guard out front leapt to his feet only to collapse back as Athos' shot found its mark. Screams and the clash of swords rang out from the cabin as Athos dismounted and hurried to d'Artagnan's side. He cut the ropes from around the young man's wrists and carefully turned him over. There was no blood he could see, but a swollen lump at the back of his head caused d'Artagnan to groan and blink awake when Athos touched it.

"Oh, thank god," muttered Athos. "D'Artagnan, we have to go."

D'Artagnan squinted at him blearily.

"Athos?"

"Get up," ordered Athos. "Now."

D'Artagnan immediately sat up and struggled to his feet with an obedience and a trust that sent a surge of fierce pride through Athos. All the color drained from his face, but Athos managed to get him on the horse and they trotted away, the sounds of fighting followed them into the night.

When they reached the road, Athos stopped the horse and looked back, but all he found was darkness and quiet.

"Athos?" D'Artagnan's voice was small. "What's going on?"

"Do you remember the bandits?"

"Enough." D'Artagnan grunted, his fingers going to the lump on his head. He turned suddenly. "Where's Porthos?"

"He'll meet us later."

Athos urged the horse forward and would not allow himself to look back.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The road leading to the inn was empty. Athos bit down on a sigh and glanced behind him at d'Artagnan. He'd tried to stay awake to keep watch for Porthos with Athos, but exhaustion had won out and his even, deep breathing was the only thing keeping Athos steady.

He looked out the window again.

It had been over an hour.

If his foolish plan had worked, Porthos should be here.

Athos had let a need to protect their youngest Musketeer override sense.

How would he explain this to Treville? To Aramis?

His thoughts were interrupted by a horse trotting into the yard of the inn. It was hard to see, but enough light shone through the windows to illuminate the size of the rider and Athos slipped from the room and flew down the stairs.

He stepped out into the night just as Porthos handed the reins of his horse over to the stable boy.

Athos composed his face, even as he searched for wounds and blood.

"Any trouble?" His voice was smooth and easy and utterly false.

"Simple enough. They won't be botherin' us again. How's d'Artagnan?"

"He took a blow to the head, but seems well. He did not wish to, but he fell asleep upstairs."

"Good to hear."

"And yourself?"

"Not a thing to worry about."

"I doubt that."

Athos turned and led Porthos through the inn and upstairs to the pair of rooms he'd acquired for them.

"D'Artagnan is in there," said Athos, nodding at one door while opening the room across the hall. Porthos ducked through the doorway and Athos followed. He closed the door and leaned against the frame to study Porthos properly in the light of the room.

Blood from a cut on his cheek ran down his face, down his neck, and disappeared into his collar. Bruises were rising around one eye. Athos' jaw tightened when Porthos pulled off his gloves, revealing split and swollen knuckles.

"You're an idiot," pronounced Athos as he folded his arms across his chest.

Porthos shrugged out of his doublet and rolled his shoulders. He flashed Athos a grin.

"Worked, didn't it?"

"You are rather missing the point."

"Why don't you explain it to me, then," said Porthos as his smile disappeared. He put his hands on his hips and stuck out his chin.

Athos dropped his head, ducked beneath his hat before removing it and tossing it onto the table.

"Have I been so distant?" asked Athos. "So cold, that you think I do not love you? That your death would mean nothing?" Porthos blinked.

"'Course not-"

"Then why would you..." Athos broke off, his face shaking. He tried again, forcing his voice down. "To save d'Artagnan, but lose you? That would not have been victory."

"Yeah, it would've. Just different than you think."

"Talk sense."

"You're different. Since d'Artagnan came along." Porthos rubbed at the dry, flaking blood on his neck. "It's a wonder you remember much 'bout when you came to the Musketeers. Blind drunk most o' the time. And I didn't know your story, about Milady. But I remember watchin' you try to pull yourself out of a pit. And even when you manged it, you still stood on the edge. All the years I've known you, long before you told us about Thomas, you balanced on the edge of a darkness that his death left behind. Until he came," said Porthos, gesturing at the walls that separated them from d'Artagnan. "You aren't staring into that pit so much anymore. But losin' him? You sufferin' like that?" Porthos shook his head. "I won't watch it again."

"So you'll die first, is that it?"

"I can think of worse reasons."

Porthos looked at him, calm and steady. He wasn't angry. Porthos was sure that Athos and d'Artagnan were worth it. Worth pain and blood. Worth trading his life.

He was _certain_.

Certain and confident and accepting in a way Athos thought he himself had never been.

Athos couldn't find any words in the face of a selfless love that tremendous.

Instead, he crossed the room and poured out some water into a basin, gesturing for Porthos to sit. The big man frowned, but folded himself into a chair at Athos' silent look.

Athos took the towel and rubbed at the blood staining Porthos' face and neck. It was dried and stubborn, but slowly gave way beneath Athos firm strokes.

At some point, Porthos' eyes had fallen shut and he looked as tired as Athos felt.

With the blood gone, Athos could see the cut on his cheekbone wasn't deep enough to require needlework. He dabbed at it lightly.

"And what would I have told Aramis?" The question was little more than a whisper, but Porthos' dark eyes snapped open. Athos let his thumb rest next to the cut that would become another scar in Porthos' collection. "Do you think it would have been easy?"

Porthos looked up and studied him in the quiet.

"No. But he would have understood. Aramis would've done the same."

Athos blew out a frustrated breath and dropped the towel into the rose-hued water.

"I do not understand you."

"I know, but you're gettin' better," teased Porthos as he stood.

"You said I need him," said Athos. Porthos stopped and turned to face him. "And I am not saying you are wrong. But all those years ago, it was not d'Artagnan who saved my life." Porthos ducked his head with a pleased smile, battered fingers toying with the wrist of his shirt.

"Maybe not. But I think he helped convince you to live it."

Athos had loved once.

Perhaps not as easily as Aramis or as steadily as Porthos or as fiercely as d'Artagnan. But he had loved his brother and his wife and the future laid out before him.

And he had lost it all.

His life became darkness and more guilt than he ever would have thought possible.

He had lied to his friends with his silence.

Porthos had deception from Aramis and subterfuge from Treville.

He deserved better.

Athos did not want one more lie in a world full of them.

He peered up at Porthos

"Never think that I don't care for you, that your death wouldn't-" Athos cut off as Porthos pulled him to his chest in a fierce hug.

"I _know_ , Athos," said Porthos. "Maybe you confound some. But I read you, plain enough."

Athos felt a little thrill of terror.

Of being understood.

Of being _known_.

But Porthos' warm, rumbling voice seemed to fill the hollow parts of him and light the dark places.

And it was far more compelling than his fear.


End file.
